


In the Desert Sun

by stillgoldie1899



Series: Dreams and Sunshine [1]
Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillgoldie1899/pseuds/stillgoldie1899
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dream finally fulfilled, but at what cost? In the wilds, far from home, his childhood daydream finally realized, Jack finally understands what his dream really is- Home, and Sarah, and the kind of life he never thought he'd have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Desert Sun

The air was so hot it was almost impossible to breathe, and dry enough that it stole every bit of moisture, turning it into dust, until it felt as though he'd swallowed a mouthful of sand. Everywhere he looked, nothing but sand, and blistering white light that left impressions on his eyes. After several days of it, it seemed to him that he would see the world through a grey haze for the rest of his life.

The sun was larger, brighter. It filled the sky and more, it seemed. Some day, he'd find a way to tell her that. That he'd been right. It wasn't the same sun, it wasn't the same sky. If he survived, he'd tell her that. From the safety of a tenement rooftop, in New York City. The slums of the city had held dangers, true. But they were dangers he understood.

There was so much he didn't know about, out here. The snakes and bugs and creepy crawly things. Rats and rabid street dogs were a known quantity. Here, a bite was a quick death, and came suddenly, out of nowhere, from under bare rock. Here, so far from anything else, there wasn't much in the way of help either. The men he rode with would like as not leave him to die. Why save a green, childish dude, who had no business riding with them, South, to pick up a herd?

This was his dream, then. And this was not his dream at all. Withering away like a long piece of jerky in the southern sun, far from home, far from comfort, far from his fleeting fame. Why had he come here? A fight with the girl he loved, wounded pride, a need to prove himself- they were all reasons. But the longer he cooked in the sunlight, the less valid his reasons became, until he was fighting a physical urge to turn and run, tail between his legs, back to the city, back home, back to her. He was a fool. His life hadn't been perfect, but neither was his dream.

His poor horse seemed as dried out as he was, barely able to put one hoof in front of the other, and he was on the verge of just getting off, and walking the poor beast when there was, at last, a flash of shadow in the distance. A cliff-face. Randy, the man in charge of the drive, had told him the night before, that their next stop would be along the base of a cliff.

Hope swelled in his heart- every step closer to the cliff was a bit closer to the herd. And every step closer to the herd, was a step back northwards. And every step northwards brought him closer to home. This was it, he decided as he urged his poor horse forward, this was the only time he was ever going to do this. He was going to see this through, and then go home. She'd be waiting for him, of course she would.

It took another hour, distance playing tricks in the hazy late afternoon sun, shadows growing thinner along the east-facing cliff. An hour more of thirst and blinding light, before he finally slid out of the saddle, aching and tired, hitching his mount to what had, at one point, been a tree, but was now just withered branches jutting from a stump, and helping the others with set up camp. He had learned early on that he had no skill at cooking, although he did his part when his rotation came around, but he was very good at digging trenches for latrines.

As he dug, he thought about what he could do in the city, when he got back. He'd have a bit of money left over after buying a train ticket back. He could hoard it towards a small apartment of his own, in one of the shadier buildings. He'd beg Medda for work, save up. And when he was settled, and a bit more comfortable, he'd ask the love of his life to marry him. Wedding, kids, the whole nine yards. He hadn't known how much he'd wanted that, until he was out in the middle of nowhere, pretending to be an actual cowboy.

His attention was so focused, so rapt, on this daydream, that he didn't even hear the sound until he was far too close to it. It was a sound he should have known, but he'd never heard in real life. It was the rattling of a frightened snake.

He almost didn't feel it, at first. The bite. The teeth sinking into his leg. He might never have noticed, if not for one of the other men yelling. Out of nowhere, he was sideways, on the ground, where a moment before, he'd been upright, and the moment he hit the ground, it seemed, the pain started. It was a delirious, swirling sort of pain, and it tore from his leg upwards, leaving him dizzy, sweating, confused. There was a cacophony of sounds and movement around him as the others rushed to kill the snake, and crowd around him. But in spite of the clamor, he could barely hear them. He was somewhere else entirely.

He was home. Back on that rooftop, in the pale summer morning. She was smiling at him, and he was flirting, and there was milk, and rolls. And he talked about the sun, in the sky, in Santa Fe, like it was heaven. Because, for him, heaven was that dream of Santa Fe. And she shook her head, and told him the sky was the same where they were. And this time, this time, he agreed with her. Heaven was there. Heaven was with her. Heaven was loving her, her lips on his, his arms wrapped so tightly around her he thought she might break.

He whispered her name, as the sun set on that rooftop. The men around him had no idea what he was mumbling as he slowly faded away from them, and they were unable to help him. One of them, the leader, caught a girl's name, and guessed she was the one in the sketch he carried in his breast pocket. A sweetheart. He promised himself he'd try to find the girl, although with nothing but a first name, he'd probably fail in trying.

When they buried him, they made him a rough wooden cross out of the tree his horse had been hitched to. It should have told of his deeds, his life, the glory, the darkness. A novel could have been written about him, in spite of his youth. Instead, the cross simply read,

Here lies Jack Kelly


End file.
